She Was Raised in the Arena

✴︎ The Better ✴︎

I will still bet on her. I will lose with her.

I see her in the ring, blood on her knuckles, defiance in her eyes. Not because she wants the fight—but because it’s the only place she was ever allowed to exist.

I offer softness, knowing she might snarl. I offer silence, knowing she might flinch. I stay, not to rescue, but to witness. To lose beside her.

I know she won’t let me help. I know she’ll refuse the outstretched hand. But I bet on her anyway. Because love is not rescue. It is staying.

Even when the cage is unlocked. Even when she won’t leave.

✴︎ The Gatekeeper ✴︎

$30 to the man up front who tells me she has no shot.

“She was born tainted.”

“Raised wrong. Trained to lose.”

“She misses the leash when it’s gone.”

“She wears the chain like a badge.”

“She thinks pain means love.”

“She enjoys the fights.”

He spits prophecy like fact. He doesn’t know her. But he knows the system that made her.

✴︎ The Arena ✴︎

She was raised in a house where bruises meant attention. Where silence was punishment. Where the leash was love.

“I learned to recognize the footsteps. I knew which ones meant danger. I learned how to walk without sound, how to breathe without being noticed.” — anonymous

She doesn’t enjoy the violence. She enjoys the familiarity. The rhythm of blood. The comfort of red. She snarls at kindness because kindness feels like a lie.

“I wore my bruises like medals. At least they meant I existed.” — anonymous

She will lose. She will not ask for rescue. She will mistake tenderness for threat.

Of course she won’t let me be there for her. I will still bet on her. I will lose with her.

✴︎ The One Who Speaks Back ✴︎

I see you.

Not the version they named, not the fighter they forced you to become — you.
The one beneath the stance, beneath the snarl, beneath the practiced readiness.

You don’t have to keep swinging for me to stay.
You don’t have to earn breath or space or softness.
You don’t have to prove you can survive another round.

You’re allowed to stop fighting.
You’re allowed to rest your hands.
You’re allowed to breathe without waiting for the next hit.

I’m not here to drag you out of the arena.
I’m not here to tell you what healing should look like.
I’m just here — with you, not above you, not against you.

If you sit, I’ll sit.
If you breathe, I’ll breathe.
If you look away, I’ll stay anyway.

You don’t have to be a storm for me to recognize you.
You don’t have to be a weapon for me to stay close.

I see you.
And you’re allowed to be more than what the arena taught you to be.